


Let Your Backbone Flip

by hansbekhart



Series: Collected Bones of All Kinds [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Character, Black face in a White Place, Black history, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America - historical figure, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Racial Identity, Racism, Recovery, Representation Matters, Sam-Centric, Sassy Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:01:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2201241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansbekhart/pseuds/hansbekhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been back from Afghanistan about two months when the Battle of New York happened.  He had heard about Captain America getting pulled out of the ice a week or so before, of course - it had been all over the internet, in all the papers.  Sam hadn't really cared, at the time.  Too wrapped up in trying to sleep through the night, surrounded by people who loved him but didn't get it.  Those were angry days where every hour was a challenge not to scream at his own family for all their petty, safe, day to day living, and Sam had felt pretty much the same about Captain America's revival as he did hearing about the Chitauri invasion, which was basically that he could give a fuck. </p><p> </p><p>-<br/>This story takes place in parallel to <i>Wheels Won't Turn.</i>  You don't need to read them in any particular order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They're both awake when the call comes. They’re leaving from Dulles at 9 am, so they need to be out of the house by 6. A flight like that, Sam usually powers through the night and sleeps the plane, but he probably wouldn’t have slept much no matter what time the plane was leaving. He'd given up staring at his ceiling around 3, and padded downstairs to get coffee on. Steve was in the kitchen, right where Sam had left him at midnight, the folder spread out on the table in front of him.

"You sleep?" Sam asks, and Steve huffs a laugh at him, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"Took a seventy year nap," he says. "I'm good."

He sounds steady enough, but Steve's the kind of guy who smiles when he's bleeding internally and doesn't want you to know. The coffee machine makes happy bubbling noises as it wakes up, and Sam inhales the smell of imminent caffeine gratefully. He hears papers crinkling, behind him. When he turns back around Steve has shuffled everything back in order, his chin propped on one hand and the other flat on top of the folder, covering the words in red.

Sam fills mugs for both of them and brings them over. He's not sure coffee does anything more for Steve than alcohol does, but he assumes it's the thought that counts. 

"You ready to do this?" Sam asks quietly, into the silence between them. Steve considers the question, smiling, and then shakes his head.

"We don't even know he's left the country," Steve says. "Maybe we should be going to Brooklyn instead of Russia. Maybe he hasn't even left DC."

They've had this conversation a few times, and Sam lets it slide. The folder and Natasha's contacts had pointed to a background much heavier on Soviets than HYDRA, and decades of apparent activity in the former USSR. Chatter from HYDRA splinter groups in Europe indicated heavy transport of resources out of the US, and thirteen people had been arrested in the last two days alone, attempting to flee the country with sensitive materials. Eight of them had end destinations in Moscow. 

There hasn't been any word or rumor on the Winter Soldier so far, but the file under Steve's hand has a lot to say about a weapon who can barely feed itself or speak. There’s a contradiction there, Sam thinks, from the assassin who single handedly destroyed their only chance at air support, back in DC - but until they find Barnes or one of his handlers, it’ll stay a mystery. Right now they can’t assume that Barnes is able to move under his own steam. If the reality is that he’s more broken gun than anything else, either HYDRA has him or he’s dead already. So, Russia.

Sam had been 11 when the Berlin Wall fell, and most of what he knows about the Cold War comes from 80's action movies. Steve's a lot better versed in it all, and had taken Sam through an impromptu history lesson the first time he read through Barnes' history. "Had a lot of time to catch up on," he'd explained tersely without Sam asking, which Sam thinks is fair enough. Probably explains how he knows Krav Maga and whatever the hell else he was using in DC, too. Steve's a smart guy with a lot of time on his hands, and up until recently he had a lot of people interested in bankrolling his catch up.

Between Steve Roger’s big mug plastered on everything from t-shirts to toilet paper and Sam’s expectation of being the only black guy in Russia, they don’t have a lot of hope for stealth. Mostly, Steve had explained, smirking, they were gonna go in loud and break a lot of heads.

That had been yesterday, though - paging through the Winter Soldier’s file, strategy firing back and forth between them - and since then Steve’s reread the file a few times and got more quiet and more still as the hours wore on and the reality set in. So Sam waits, feeling the early hour deep in his bones.

“He knew me,” Steve says, softly. “You shoulda seen his face, right before ...” He trails off, shifting a little in his chair, and after a long time is able to finish the thought. “I just don’t know how anyone survives this.”

He means the Winter Soldier, probably. It’s the safer assumption. Sam’s called people out the other way before and it’s rarely been what they were looking for. So all he says is, “However this goes down, Steve - we’ll bring him home.”

Steve grimaces, but whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by the buzz of his cell. They stare at it, nonplussed. Steve looks at Sam, who shrugs. The phone buzzes again, and Steve reaches for it. "Tony," he says. "What's going on? It's a little late to be -"

Sam’s not looking at him - he’s staring up at the ceiling and wondering if he’s really packing enough underwear and socks for this - so he doesn’t see the shudder that runs all the way through Steve. He hears the coffee mug shatter as Steve’s elbow jolts and knocks it off the table, and when he looks up Steve’s staring straight at him, his eyes wide and face bloodless.

“Oh my god,” Steve says, and Sam sucks in a breath, understanding instantly. 

“Steve - is it him? What’s going on? Who are you talking to?”

Steve holds up a hand, trying to listen to whoever’s on the phone. He’s barely breathing. His fingers are shaking and without hesitation Sam grabs them, gives him something to hold on to.

 

-

 

The ride up to New York is tense, to say the least.

Sam filed an insurance claim on his car while he was at the hospital waiting for Steve to wake up - after calling his folks, his sister, his cousins, his friends, basically everyone he knew - but GEICO’s under water with everything else going on in DC and the agent he spoke to couldn’t tell him when his claim would go through or when a temp car would be available. Sam’s sister lives a few minutes away and he has to call her eight times before she finally picks up. She brings over her car still in PJs and robe, and stares unblinkingly at Steve from the back seat as they drop her back at her place.

“Thanks, Lou,” he says, slipping out to give her a hard hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll have it back to you in a few days, I promise.”

She waves him off. She’s working from home for the foreseeable future; her office is block over from the Triskelion. “Holy crap, Sam,” is all she says. “You really weren’t kidding.”

“Yeah,” he says, and hugs her again.

Sam lasts an hour on the road before he reaches a hand over to Steve’s shoulder and tells him, “ _breathe_ , dude.” Steve does, sucking in an audible gust of air before his head drops back onto the seat. He’s a ball of tension and misery in the passenger seat, his eyes red rimmed and his hands clenched tight in his lap.

“Well,” Sam says, after a beat, “at least we’re saving the plane ride to Russia.” 

Steve lolls his head over and waits for Sam to look at him. “I told you so,” he says.

“He’s still not in Brooklyn,” Sam tells him, and steps on the gas.

 

\- 

 

The funny thing is that Steve and Natasha hadn't told him anything about an unstoppable Cold War killing machine on their trail. In retrospect, they hadn't told him much at all - didn't get much more in depth than SHIELD was compromised, everyone they knew was trying to kill them, and they needed this Agent Sitwell guy. Sam hadn't needed much more than that, to be honest - hadn't asked. It really wasn't until he heard boots on his car roof and saw a metal arm rip the steering wheel right out of his hands that he really understood what he'd gotten himself into.

He'd been back from Afghanistan about two months when the Battle of New York happened. He had heard about Captain America getting pulled out of the ice a week or so before, of course - it had been all over the internet, in all the papers. Sam hadn't really cared, at the time. Too wrapped up in trying to sleep through the night, surrounded by people who loved him but _didn't get it_. Those were angry days where every hour was a challenge not to scream at his own family for all their petty, safe, day to day living, and Sam had felt pretty much the same about Captain America's revival as he did hearing about the Chitauri invasion, which was basically that he could give a fuck. 

Final casualty count from the invasion was seven hundred and thirty four people. Initial reports had put it in the thousands and it had taken more than a week for the official number to be published. Considering that two buildings were demolished almost entirely and five more had at least one floor destroyed, it was a shockingly low number. The minimal body count was a credit to the NYPD, the FDNY, a neighborhood full of office buildings that regularly ran terror drills - and to the Avengers, who had managed to contain the damage to a few blocks and worked closely with LEOs throughout the crisis to evacuate the civilians caught in the crossfire.

But before the bodies had been counted - while the fires were still burning on TV - Sam had thought to himself, _good_. He'd thought, _now they'll know what it's like._

It turned out to be his lowest moment, and he still feels that hot burst of shame even now when he thinks about it, no matter how much he’s talked it out, no matter how hard he works to forgive himself and other people for the feelings they can’t help. Everyone has to hit that point, he says over and over, where they realize they’re not the person they want to be anymore, and that they’re strong enough to accept a little help to get to find their way out.

 

-

 

They get in a little past seven in the morning. Sam handed off driving just after Delaware and slept most of the way through New Jersey. He wakes up as they’re passing through the Lincoln Tunnel, gets to blearily stare out the window as they roll into Manhattan. Sam’s never liked New York City much, associates it mostly with a class trip in middle school where they never left Midtown except for a quick trip out to Liberty Island, and the streets don't look too appealing on this side of town.

Stark employs a security staff of a little over fifty people. A group of six of them meet Steve and Sam in the garage below the tower. They fall over their own feet to try and excuse what was apparently a massive security failure to Captain America, who could obviously give two shits about it. Sam listens to them in the elevator ride up, mostly out of pity. Everyone has badges and there are checkpoints at every floor and the ventilation shafts are riddled with pressure sensitive plates and motion sensors and yes, _of course_ stairwell access adheres to fire code but there are redundant systems in place to prevent unauthorized entry, _multiple_ redundancies. Basically they can’t figure out how the Winter Soldier got in, even a little bit. There’s not a frame of security footage putting him in the building until Tony Stark walked into a darkened laboratory and a metal arm reached out of the shadows and grabbed him by the throat. 

Sam sneaks a few glances over at Steve through all of this. Steve’s hands are folded in front of him and he’s bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. He apparently got his shit together while Sam was dozing and is Captain America levels of inscrutable and unconcerned.

The elevator opens up on the 63rd floor, directly into someone’s apartment. Sam’s pretty sure his entire house could fit into just the kitchen. Right now there are two guys sitting in there, dwarfed by the open space - one of whom Sam recognizes well enough from the news.

“Begone,” Tony Stark immediately intones at his security team, who scurry back into the elevator. He looks like hell. There’s blood all over his face and neck and a thick knot underneath his eye, which looks like a spider egg ready to burst. The other guy is standing over him with a first aid kit spread out over the countertop, dabbing carefully at the knot.

“Where is he?” Steve demands, striding in like he lives there. Sam follows a step or two behind, trying not to get distracted by the furnishings. He really could’ve used another hour or two of sleep, even if it was slumped upright in the car.

“Hello, Steve,” the other guy says. “He’s in the other room, but hold up a sec, okay?” He looks over at Sam and offers a quick hi. Steve apparently cares as much about manners right now as he did about the security breach, so Sam gets to introduce himself to Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. The face of the latter didn’t ring a bell but the name does, and suddenly the reason why everyone seems so calm about the super assassin in the other room becomes clear.

Steve sits across the counter, folding his hands and fixing Bruce and Tony with a very stern sort of look. Sam spots a full coffee pot and makes a beeline for it gratefully. "So you don't call, you don't write," Tony drawls at him.

"I've been a little busy," Steve grits out. "You may have watched the news at some point last week?"

"Steve, we just wanna know what's going on," Bruce says. He smooths a thick bandage over the worst of the cuts on Tony's face, and starts on cleaning off the dried blood.

Sam sips his coffee, settling against the counter at Steve's left. Tony tilts his head back, cocking an eye at both of them. "So why did Bucky Barnes' evil twin break into my building looking for you? And I'm fine, by the way, thanks for asking. He only beat me _half_ to death."

From his position, Sam can’t see much of Steve’s expression. “I don’t know why he came here,” Steve admits. “There’s a lot we don’t know. But that is Bucky. He’s alive."

Tony and Bruce share a glance. "You ever feel like the world got a whole lot weirder since we thawed out American Dreamsicle over there?" Tony asks.

"Were clones or aliens going to be _less_ weird?" Bruce asks.

 

-

 

Sam's not sure what he's expecting to happen - Tony has Iron Man gloves on both hands and Steve left his shield in the other room, so Sam splits the difference and decides to only be a little nervous. When they open the door, Barnes is in the corner with his elbows spread along the arms of his chair and his hands curled limp in his lap. He's shifting his head a little, side to side, and Sam can't see his eyes but he knows that kind of restless, blind movement well enough. 

Out of the leather and combat gear Sam saw during the maybe 10 seconds total he spent fighting the Winter Soldier, Barnes is a big guy but not crazy big, not Steve big, a little narrower in the shoulders than Sam is himself. He doesn't look up when they all file into the room, Steve immediately going to his knees in front of Barnes like he's got nothing to fear.

"Bucky, I'm here," he says urgently, and Barnes flinches like Steve had hit him hard across the face instead. He glances up at Steve and then away immediately, his eyes darting around the room. It’s the first time Sam actually sees his face.

The Winter Soldier doesn’t look much like James Buchanan Barnes. Sam never went to the Smithsonian exhibit - had meant to, actually, but after seeing the real Captain America around during his morning runs it had felt a little creepy - but from what he remembers from the WWII units in middle school, and the documentaries on the History Channel, and the picture clipped to that folder Steve's got stuffed in his duffle, Barnes was a good looking guy with a round face and sorta buggy, serious eyes. 

The guy hunched in the bedroom still has big blue eyes, but also hollow cheeks and stringy hair, and it takes Sam a minute to place what seems off in addition to, you know, the surreality of hanging out in Iron Man's zillionaire skyscraper waiting to see if a WWII hero is going to try and kill them all. He's wearing a hoodie and jeans and although the combat boots were probably part of his gear they look pretty normal. Altogether Barnes looks _unsettlingly_ normal - barring the metal hand visible at the ragged end of his sleeve, he's not someone Sam would look twice at on the street. 

And maybe that's the strange part - he doesn't look _vintage_. Steve's made the attempt to blend in and dress like he wasn't born in 1918 and he can't really help the whole embodiment of white America thing, but when photographed there's just something about him that looks like he should be in black and white. Not so the Winter Soldier, who right now just looks like a homeless kid who's wandered into the VA for the feed they do on Wednesday nights. 

"Bucky, don't you know me?" Steve asks, but Barnes doesn't reply.

 

\- 

 

Barnes won't really respond to anyone but Bruce. Sam wants to find this a little funny, especially because Tony Stark is clearly used to being paid a lot of attention to, but Steve is just sitting as close to Barnes as the other man will allow, completely ignored, his attention unwavering. Tony vanishes for a little bit while Bruce does a cursory physical examination. Barnes strips his shirt off without question, moving his limbs for easy access, his face limp and disinterested. He still doesn't look much like Bucky Barnes, to Sam.

Tony returns dragging some sort of machine - some kind of mobile MRI is Sam's guess, but it looks like a very complicated halo on casters - and they see the first real sign of life. Barnes doesn't move, but his eyes fix on the machine and his breath speeds up quick. Tony pauses, clearly gauging whether Barnes is about to attack him again. "You okay there, bucko?"

"You're safe here," Bruce tells him. He said it a few times while he was examining Barnes - when he took blood, when he pressed down on Barnes' belly, checking for internal injury. It doesn’t seem to work any better this time. Barnes is staring at the floor, expressionless. His chest is heaving, his eyes blown wide and unblinking. He looks like he’s having a panic attack, except he’s perfectly, achingly still. 

“Bucky, they just wanna make sure you’re not hurt,” Steve says, pitched low and soft.

Barnes’ eyes flash over to him, and then away. 

Tony’s still hesitating. He speaks to Steve instead of Barnes: "JARVIS can do a full scan, but we'd have to be back down in the lab for it. This is the only level that's Hulk-proofed, so a freak-out there would not be nearly as ... contained, obviously. Entirely preferable it happens up here. Don't actually know if anyone's cleaned up the blood down there, either."

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Bruce says, and slowly, Barnes leans back in the chair and tilts his chin up, the line of his throat unmistakably submissive. The leather creaks against the bare skin of his back. His panting is very loud in the room.

"Are you -" Tony says, and just as quickly cuts himself off, moving quickly to settle the halo over Barnes' head. "Never mind, just - hold still."

The machine hums a bit as it warms up, and Barnes’s face contracts, screwing all the way up - waiting for it to _hurt_ and just sitting there, _letting_ it happen - and before he can even think about it Sam blurts out, “Turn it off, don’t do it.”

But it’s already over with, and they all get to see the naked, uncertain terror in Barnes' eyes when Tony pulls the halo off him. Barnes doesn't say anything, his eyes flickering down over himself, cataloging. There's a wariness in his expression that seems ... more aware than Sam was giving him credit for, which is actually so much worse. Steve looks gutted, his fingers tangled up between his knees like he has to restrain himself from reaching out. Sam can sympathize.

 

-

 

They look at the results of the blood work and scans from the MRI. The words "profoundly brain damaged" are spoken and then argued about. Barnes looks like he's in another world entirely, like they're not talking about what his brain looks like and whether or not he should be a vegetable and whether or not he'll ever be a person again. 

He is listening, though. He's staring into middle distance but his head cocks, just a little, to follow who's speaking. 

By unspoken agreement, they move back to the kitchen, leaving Barnes in the bedroom. Steve lingers and Sam gets to enjoy a few awkward minutes hanging out in the kitchen with Bruce and Tony.

"You're the guy with the wings," Tony says, abruptly. Sam's a little lost in his own thoughts and the aching pity that's settling around his heart, and it takes him a moment to realize Tony's talking to him. He looks up and and Tony elaborates, "in DC, with Cap. You're the guy with the wings."

"Yeah," Sam says, trying not to make it a question. 

"You're all over the news," Tony tells him, and then picks up Steve's duffle and retrieves the Winter Soldier file, conversation apparently over. Sam looks over to Bruce for his cue, but Bruce seems as far away as Sam was a moment ago, staring out the windows to where it is definitely, absolutely, 100% daytime.

Steve chooses that moment to reappear. Hands in his pockets, chin tucked into his chest. He draws back up towards where they're ringed around the counter, lingering in Sam's six like he's not quite sure where to situate himself. He draws in a long sigh when he sees Tony flipping casually through the file, but doesn't say anything.

"Well," Tony says, not looking up. "Obviously he's staying here."

Sam looks back at Steve, whose eyes widen for just a second before he's leaning back, squaring his shoulders. “I can’t ask that of you, Tony.”

“Who's asking? And where else exactly were you planning to go, Cap?” Tony asks, lifting an eyebrow. He's hunched over a page that, if Sam remembers correctly, details a series of assassinations in Eastern Europe somewhere in the 1980's. “Last I checked, Big Brother’s not around anymore. Even if they were, best case scenario is they give your ubermenschy pal there a forever home in a secret prison - unless they thought they could still get a few more murders out of him."

“That wouldn’t happen,” Steve says, but even he doesn’t sound like he believes it. 

“No?” Tony says. “Steve, come on. Did you even take a look at the leaked files? Who am I kidding, like you know how the internet works -” 

“I’m just so stuck on this whole fire thing,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

“ - but he’s in there among the many, many morally questionable or outright bad choices in SHIELD’s glorious history. As the Winter Soldier, I mean.”

Steve goes still, like he’s already figured out where this is heading. Sam knows it too, can feel it in the pit of his stomach, and he wants to reach out and stop Steve from saying, “You mean, there’s intelligence on the Winter Soldier.”

“No,” Tony says, and for a minute he actually looks sorry for what he’s saying, just a little bit. “I mean there are directives for him. Protocols for his handlers. Assignments.”

“Fury said he didn’t know about Bucky,” Steve says, but it all makes a lot of sense, like a math equation forming in front of Sam’s eyes. HYDRA had Bucky. HYDRA was SHIELD. Therefore - 

“He may not have known it was Barnes,” Tony says, “but there are at least four wet jobs in those files that were carried out by the Winter Soldier, and two of them were signed off on by Fury himself. 

"Look, this isn't the point," he rushes on, as if it really is unimportant, as if Steve isn't white knuckle gripping the counter next to Sam like he won't be able to stay upright otherwise. "The point is, and I take no joy in saying this, but you don't have a lot of resources. I do. Resources like a secure facility to hold your little buddy in until he stops being so homicidal - well, if we knew how he got _in_ I'd feel more secure about being able to stop him from getting _out_ , but you get my drift." He looks over at Banner. "You can bunk with me, in the meantime. Or there’s like, I dunno, thirty other residential floors, take your pick. You can have Cap's floor."

"You have a floor?" Sam asks.

"You actually took him up on this?" Steve asks Bruce, an eyebrow raised. 

Bruce shrugs. "We're science bros." He offers his knuckles to Tony, who bumps them without looking over.

Sam looks up at Steve, waits for him to look back. "He's got a point," he tells Steve quietly. "It's a lot safer here than out on the streets. What if HYDRA comes looking for him?"

Steve frowns at him, but nods, reluctantly. "Besides," Sam says, "you've seriously been holding out on me with this whole floor in Stark Tower thing."

 

-

 

Sam sleeps through the rest of the day, setting an alarm for early evening so he doesn't mess himself up too badly. He forces himself out of bed when it goes off, stumbling groggy and unhappy into the living room. He’s not too surprised to see Steve sitting out on the balcony (terrace is probably the better word for it, and that’s it - Sam definitely hasn’t had enough sleep to deal with this fucking building).

Outside, it’s a nice evening to be brooding on the terrace of Tony Stark’s palatial skyscraper apartment, Sam guesses. The sun is going down on the opposite side of the building and in the distance the outer boroughs look like places people actually live in. There’s a couple low, squishy couches and a glass coffee table out there, and the whole set up seems a lot more rooftop bar than pity party, but Steve is making do.

Sam goes and grabs two beers out of the fridge before sliding open the glass door and joining Steve on the terrace. It's some fancy Belgian bullshit, of course. Sam pops them both open on his ring and slides one over to Steve, who looks at it wryly. "We've had this conversation before," he says.

"I know," Sam says. "Drink it anyway."

Sam lets the silence settle over them for a while. The beer feels like a well earned reward. He's a little surprised to realize it's been about a week since Steve and Natasha showed up on his doorstep. DC is still a disaster zone. Manhattan might as well be on another planet for all it seems affected, although down around below them are a few cranes and craters, still lingering from the battle two years ago. 

Sam nudges Steve with his elbow and points towards the river. "I can see your house from here."

Steve squints. "That's Queens."

Sam shrugs and says, knowing the effect it'll have, "Same difference, right?" 

His only reward is an exaggerated eye roll, so he nudges Steve again. "You wanna talk about it?"

"No," Steve says, but the smile slips right off his face the minute he tries it.

"I know," Sam tells him. "Do it anyway."

Steve looks down, fiddles with the label on his bottle. Sam can almost see him trying the words out in his head. It's a long time before he finds anything worth saying out loud.

"Do you know how long it's been for me? Since Buck died, I mean." Sam shakes his head. Steve draws in a long, shaky breath. The label peels off in little strips underneath his fingers, dropping down into his lap. "For me," Steve says quietly, "Buck died about two weeks before the Chitauri invaded New York. It took a couple days to get Zola back to London, where the SSR was headquartered. They took a day or so to interrogate him, and then the next morning they told us that Schmidt would be launching his warship within the next 24 hours. We were on a plane by 1100. Schmidt launched the ship that night, and I -". He stops abruptly. Takes a long pull from the beer.

Sam knows all this. The days leading up to Captain America’s assault on HYDRA have been exhaustively studied and analyzed like any other turning point in World War II, like Pearl Harbor or D Day or the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He watched a lot of late night television when he first got back, and he'd watched the History Channel's Captain America stuff mindlessly. He'd liked the Howling Commandos a lot as a kid, liked them even after he'd grown up a little and realized what a weird, apocryphal propaganda machine they'd been a part of. The truth about who the Howlies were and what they’d done during World War II had been even more interesting when you ignored the comic books and the Bucky Bears and the Captain America merchandise. He could tell Steve plenty about the aftermath, how the Howlies had taken Schmidt's stronghold after the Valkyrie had launched, and what they'd done in the days after Steve's death.

Abruptly, Sam wonders if Steve really _did_ die - if the serum restarted his heart and pasted his brain back together and didn't just freeze him, but actually _brought him back to life_. He's never thought about it before. He wonders if Steve knows, if there'd even be a way to tell.

"I was - the crash knocked me out almost instantly," Steve continues. "When I woke up, SHIELD had me and I was in the future. And that was it for me - it felt like the next day, like I'd lost a few hours but not any worse than that. They hadn't even figured out what to do with me when Fury came to ask my help looking for the Cube. That was it. I was fighting Nazis one week and aliens the next."

He glares at the beer in his hand, now empty and its label stripped entirely. " _Fuck_ , I miss getting drunk," he says explosively, and continues before Sam has the chance to say anything. "I missed Bucky _every goddamn day_. He used to save newspaper articles about Howard Stark, you know that? Tony's dad. He _loved_ technology, science fiction. Even through the worst of it, of trying to, to adapt - I'd see something amazing and think: I gotta tell Buck, he's gonna love this."

“And then you'd have to remember all over again that he was gone,” Sam says. Steve's eyes squeeze close for a long moment. When he comes back to himself he stays silent, staring down across the wide gulf of the East River, where lights are coming on across Queens and Brooklyn. 

“And then,” Sam says, guessing, remembering, “you start to realize that you haven’t thought about him in a few days. That maybe it doesn’t hurt so bad anymore when you do think about him. And maybe you _want_ to move on and stop hurting all the time, even though it feels like you’re betraying your friend by letting him go.”

Steve’s eyes are very pale, and he’s staring at Sam with open, hungry relief. "I was giving it a real shot," he says softly, after a moment. "Living here. _Being_ here. I asked someone out on a date, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know," Sam returns, "and I took down SHIELD with you. Best first date I ever had." 

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, and Sam has a moment of wild realization that he’s overshot the joke - but then Steve bursts out laughing. "Sorry the second one -" he gestures towards the quiet bedroom - "wasn't quite so much fun."

Sam sighs heavily. "Yeah, psycho exes have never been my style. But hey, you seem like a nice guy. You know how to treat a girl right. Maybe we can be friends."

Steve's grin fades a little, but just enough to turn it into something sincere. "Sam, you were the first friend I'd made since 1925."

“Well, you’ve got good taste,” Sam says. 

Steve eyes slant towards the terrace doors and towards who, presumably, is sleeping somewhere inside. "Good taste," he echoes. "Pretty piss poor judgment."

"You didn't know," Sam tells him. "No one knew."

"Fury knew he had a weapon," Steve says. "Guess the rest of it didn't matter so much."

Sam has a moment where he wants to argue the point. Nick Fury had looked like a hard man to Sam, someone who had had to make a lot of hard choices to get where he was. But even if he hadn't known it was Bucky Barnes inside that cryo unit, it had still been someone. 

Someone who was, apparently, still aware of what was being done to him. Who was in there, somewhere. 

“Bucky was my hero,” Steve says, and for just a second his voice is scraped raw and bleeding, and Sam feels the weight of grief and anger and hurt like Steve's physically moved his to Sam's shoulders. “He always tried to do right by other people. He always took care of me."

"Steve," Sam says, dismayed, but the moment is just that, Steve already folding all those broken edges back inside. He tolerates the hand Sam puts on his shoulder, but he's staring off towards the river, his jaw setting into a hard, determined line. It's an expression straight off one of his propaganda posters. 

He looks over at Sam and quirks a Captain America smile at him. "I've saved him before," Steve says. "I'll do it again."

"Steve - it doesn't work that way," Sam tells him, but Steve doesn't seem to hear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Chitauri attack, FOX News had gone on a two week cultural values rampage that didn't end until Stephen Colbert started a regular feature called WWCAD: What Would Captain America Do. There'd been one a few days ago, after DC - the answer had been, Make A Black Friend.

The next night, Sam is almost killed by the Winter Soldier, accidentally. He wakes up a little before sunrise and shuffles out of bed and towards the bathroom. Like something out of a horror movie, he doesn't see Barnes standing in the darkness until he walks right into him. It's like hitting a brick wall or running full tilt into Steve, and he nearly goes right down on his ass. Still mostly asleep, he flails and catches hold of Barnes' arm, the metal one. 

" _Fuck_ ," Sam says, and lets go like he's been shocked, stumbling backwards. He can see the glint of Barnes' eyes but not much else. He doesn't see Barnes move at all. There’s a weird whirring sound and he feels the impact against his chest, and has a moment of unreality where he's flying backwards and isn't even sure why. Then he hits something as unyielding as Barnes himself. Stars burst behind his eyes and he feels a hand grabbing the front of his shirt, lifting him from whatever he fell across - and that's all he knows for a little bit.

He's out for only a minute or two, but when he resurfaces Steve is there. He can hear Steve grunt as Barnes' fist connects but he can't tell what's happening until he reaches up and over the wreckage of what's probably the couch and finds the table lamp, still miraculously upright.

Barnes is on his back on the ground, Steve kneeling astride him, both hands trying to pin down the metal arm. It's Barnes' human hand hitting Steve wherever he can reach, his whole body bucking trying to throw Steve off.

Later, Sam will remember seeing Steve fight the Winter Soldier in DC, how they'd moved too fast to be real, how the Soldier had shattered concrete with that metal fist, how Steve had left a dent the width of his shoulders in the side of a car without seeming to notice. 

In the moment, he sees Barnes' fist connect with Steve's collarbone with a thick, ugly sound, and he launches himself across the room at them without thinking twice about it. It takes both his hands and one knee to pin Barnes' other arm down long enough to get close and shout, "Knock it off!" right in Barnes' face.

Amazingly, he does - his head snapping back against the ground and blinking those big eyes up at Sam and Steve. His tongue rolls out and swipes at his lower lip. The motion is off-putting and his mouth stays slack and open afterwards, but he seems alert and more or less aware again. He looks up at Steve and actually holds the gaze, very deliberately relaxing both shoulders and letting his hands fall to the carpet.

"What the hell, man!" Sam says. Barnes glances at him, then over their shoulders, surveying the damage in the room. "You gonna do that again, if we let you go?"

Barnes surprises Sam again by saying, "No. You can let me up."

Steve actually offers Barnes a hand up. Sam plops his butt down at the kitchen counter and checks himself over. His hands are shaking pretty bad. His face feels a little pulpy and his ribs are gonna be hell in a few hours, but nothing is shrieking agony or broken, so. After a minute, Barnes sits down on the stool next to Sam. "Really?" Sam asks him.

Behind them, the living room is a mess. "Good thing Tony's rich," Steve says, contemplating the destruction. He looks over his shoulder, sees both Sam and Barnes contemplating him. "You guys hungry?"

 

-

 

The ride back to DC feels twice as long as the one up. It's quiet in the car without Steve, and Sam hits traffic going into Jersey, coming out of Jersey and coming into DC, for good measure. He’s sweaty and cranky and has to piss _so goddamn bad_ , and by the time he’s finally back in the vicinity of stoplights and can check his phone, he’s got two voicemails from his mom, four texts from his sister and _seventeen texts_ from Steve Rogers.

“You prehistoric motherfucker,” Sam tells his phone. “Look at all those emojis. Are you a teenage girl.”

He meets Lou for lunch. She’s completely unimpressed by the goose egg on the back of his head, courtesy of the Winter Soldier. “I think I've aged 20 years in a week. Do you know how many times I’ve had to see you getting shot at in the last few days?"

A lot, Sam assumes. Yesterday, while Barnes had been sleeping it off, he'd gotten caught up on the media. Tony was right - Sam was all over everything. He hadn't really thought about it at the time, but most of the fighting had been either on the deck of the helicarriers or inside the Triskelion. The news helicopters he vaguely remembers seeing couldn't have caught those parts. The scant amount of action that took place in public view, the stuff they could show on TV that wasn't people dying or buildings falling down was … mostly Sam. Dodging bullets and planes. Leaping from the helicarrier and dropping like a stone before the wings unfurled. Catching Captain America. Over and over again, on every channel. There are people’s cell phone pictures and video on Twitter, on Facebook. He's a Tumblr meme.

"Look at my gray hair," Lou, parting her scalp for him. "Look, you did this to me. I thought you were done getting shot at but _no_ , Lou. Captain America needs my _help_ , Lou.”

Sam arches an eyebrow. "You saying I should’ve stayed home?"

Lou rolls her eyes. "I know you better than that. Although I wouldn't have thought you'd ever get back in there, especially for someone like that, all ..." She waves a hand. 

Sam shrugs, batting Lou away from his french fries. It had occurred to him too. Dude had his own _Smithsonian exhibit_. There were decades of academic research and history into every facet of his life and death. Captain America was as familiar a propaganda icon of World War II as Rosie the Riveter. You could literally not be more American than Captain America had been for the last 70 years - at least for certain values of American, anyway. 

Before Riley died, Sam had been in the Air Force for a long, long time, and he didn't get into it to fight bad guys. He got into it to help people. And even though the dude had a Smithsonian exhibit and piles and piles of books written about him and at least a dozen documentaries, three mini series and several feature films about him, it was an easy thing to forget that Steve Rogers also didn’t kick his way into World War II because he wanted to fight bad guys. Easy to forget that he was ever more than the comic books and propaganda, and what people had made of the legend since.

Hard to say all that, though - and hard to admit that Sam had forgotten too, during those angry days, so all he says is, “It was worth it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah?” Lou asks. “You gonna put on some tights and go join the Avengers? Just let me know in advance so I can get on a plane to Mom and Dad before they have their heart attacks, okay?”

“You’ll see it on YouTube,” Sam shoots back. “I’ll Snapchat you my spandex covered ass."

"Gross," Lou says: one point to Sam. They eat for a while in silence. Sam graciously allows Lou the rest of his fries. Around them the restaurant is pretty subdued. He can hear people telling each other where they were, when the attack happened. If they knew anyone who was killed. There's a TV playing over the bar, where Sam is catching Captain America again.

"So what _is_ he like, then?" Lou asks, following Sam's gaze.

"He's - a soldier," Sam says, cautiously. “I mean, of course he’s, you know, who he is, but he’s also just a guy who went and fought and came back with nothing. He’s like any of the people I work with at the VA - lost and sad and trying to figure out what kind of person they want to be. He's a good guy."

"No old timey racism?" she asks, grinning. "He knows we get to vote and hold property now, right? Is he into the Tea Party? How does he feel about Obama?"

"Lou, come on," Sam scolds, but he can't say he hasn't wondered. Maybe SHIELD had given Steve a lot of sensitivity training before letting him loose on the world. He hadn't known what to expect when Captain America had jogged up to him, collapsed at the base of a tree and cursing himself for trying to be competitive with _fucking Captain America_. The dude seemed nice, but in general Sam keeps his hopes high and expectations low. 

 

-

 

He's still worrying it over in his mind, later on. He can't remember the state of his fridge but he's pretty sure it's dire, so he has Lou drop him off at the Whole Foods near his house. He grabs a basket and sets to wandering the aisles, a little aimlessly. He's irritated, and it's not until he's in Dairy that it hits him: he's offended on Steve's behalf.

Lou was kidding, and he knows that. But the thing is, Sam _had_ kinda been prepared for some old timey racism, even though he knew Gabe Jones' story inside and out, and knew how the Howlies fought for him, and what he achieved after the war. Captain America had handpicked his unit when the Japanese were the enemy and black people were barely human. Desegregated units hadn't been legal until three years after Steve had died, and it took decades more for the military to desegregate in practice as well as theory. 

Captain America's been a lot of things to a lot of different people, over the years. Gabe Jones had gone back to school after the war and eventually became a lawyer, working with the NAACP to desegregate schools. He'd been an illustrious figure for the civil rights movement to have, and they'd played up the connection to Captain America to give his voice a legitimacy to white America that it might not have had otherwise. 

But during the Vietnam War and afterwards, Captain America had become rhetoric for the hawks. Nowadays any Tea Party rally is sure to have a few Captain America posters mixed in with the evil Muslim Obama signs. Steven Grant Rogers was a symbol of American patriotism - the way it used to be, maybe. The way it _should_ be, definitely - but a lot depended on who was defining it. 

Steve's never done any interviews since coming back. After the Chitauri attack, FOX News had gone on a two week cultural values rampage that didn't end until Stephen Colbert started a regular feature called WWCAD: What Would Captain America Do. There'd been one a few days ago, after DC - the answer had been, Make A Black Friend.

Sam had thought that was hilarious, but he hadn't mentioned it to Steve. Mentioning anything about his public image to Steve felt weird and invasive, which is probably why Tony Stark seems to do it all the time. It's surreal to try and reconcile Steve-his-friend with Steven Grant Rogers, American Hero, but it hits him then, standing next to rows of Greek yogurt and probiotic juice, how few people even try. How much more comfortable people seem to feel thinking of Steve as some kind of dinosaur - unable to grasp technology or have a conversation with a minority without dropping some embarrassing slurs - unchanging from the hero that they grew up with.

Maybe that's why Steve hasn't bothered to try and cultivate his public image - he's already seen it's a losing battle. No one even _wants_ to know him, not really. 

It all makes Sam really fucking sad.

He's moved on to the produce section and is contemplating kale versus collards versus bok choy when he looks over to find a guy at his elbow, looking up with expectation. He's middle aged, white, looks nice enough. "Can you tell me where to find the maple syrup?"

Sam looks down at the basket in his hand, the cell phone in his other. "I don't work here," he tells the guy, who frowns a little in confusion and moves off without saying anything else. It doesn't do much to improve his mood.

 

-

 

He calls Steve that night, to check in. He's settled on his couch with a beer and a movie queued up on Netflix, and life is pretty good. Steve is cheerful. Barnes has been awake and interactive most of the day, like a new cat who has finally crawled out from under the couch and is cautiously exploring its new habitat.

"He still isn't saying much. But I've turned around a couple times and he's standing right there, behind me," Steve says, which sounds like an actual goddamn nightmare to Sam. "I think he's trying to figure me out."

"Is he giving any sign he remembers you?" Sam asks.

"Other than pulling me out of the Potomac? Hard to tell. I've been telling him a lot of stories, about growing up and Brooklyn and the war - not much of a response to anything, though."

Sam has a vivid picture of Steve following Barnes around the apartment like a duckling, talking about their history together, hoping this time Barnes will help him finish the story. "It's been a long time for him, Steve," Sam says. "Remember, it may have been two years for you but he wasn't asleep the whole time. It's not gonna have the same relevance to him."

There's a staticky sound over the phone as Steve exhales into the speaker. "I know," he says, after a minute. "I'm just -". He sighs again.

"Whatever you're gonna say, I'm not gonna judge you for it," Sam tells him.

"I'm so happy to have him back," Steve says quietly. Sam can hear him shifting around on the other end. He wonders where Barnes is for this whole conversation. "Even like this. Even after everything they did to him. I'd give anything to take that all away from him but I can't not be happy that he's here. It's - I'm not proud of it."

"Can't get mad at yourself for still being human," Sam says. "That one's a pretty vicious cycle."

Steve laughs, a little sadly. There's a stretch of silence. Sam misses the cord his parents' phone had growing up, misses being able to twirl it around his fingers. He toys with the neck of his beer bottle instead. "Sorry I couldn't stay longer," he says, eventually.

"No, it's all right," Steve says immediately. "You're needed down there. We can manage."

"I'll be back up as soon as things calm down around here."

"I know, Sam," Steve says. "Thanks a lot for all the information you sent me. I think it'll be real helpful."

"I hope so," Sam says. "Just remember - this is a marathon, not a sprint. It can take years for people to even _start_ to really recover. He's been a POW since 1945. I know it's hard to take, but - he's never, ever gonna be the guy you grew up with. You know that, right?"

"I know," Steve says. "But he wasn't that guy anymore anyway, even before he fell. And I loved him just the same then too."

 

\- 

 

They've set up a crisis center on the 2nd floor of the VA, and in between the morning group session and the one-on-ones he has later, Sam sits and helps people navigate the tortuous process of figuring out if they can stay in their apartment if the leaseholder has been killed, where to file for death benefits for someone who worked for two governmental agencies after serving a combat tour, how to find a child psychologist who specializes in trauma. 

"It was her day off," Lisa tells him. She's trying to not to cry because her nephew is sitting on the couch behind her. Lisa's sister had been on a bus when the helicarriers came down. Shrapnel from one of them had hit the bus and killed five people on it, Lisa's sister included. Lisa is a nurse and didn't sleep for almost three days, working through the attack - and then was given emergency custody of her nephew, and hasn't slept much since. Sam would be surprised if she's any older than twenty five. 

"Anthony's dad was killed in Afghanistan," she says. "I think his folks live somewhere down South but I've never met them. Anthony only met them once, as a baby. Shari and Anthony moved in with me two years ago - I'm named in all of her paperwork, for him. But I can't pay for daycare on my income, and I can't pay rent if I take fewer shifts to be able to watch him." She's quiet for a long moment, her throat working. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

There's not much he can do for Lisa. They look into sliding scale child care. He helps her file paperwork for her sister's death benefits. He holds her hand while she cries, afterwards. Anthony is quiet throughout all of it, sitting at the low sofa in Sam's office, drawing on a notepad with the markers Sam keeps in his desk. He's maybe four or five, with big round cheeks and closely cropped hair. Maybe they'll move out of DC, find somewhere cheaper to live. Maybe Anthony's grandparents will finally show some interest. Maybe Anthony will be taken away altogether. 

He gives her a hug when they stand to leave, and crouches down to see if Anthony will shake his hand. He gives her a card so she can follow up with him, but she's got a look on her face like she's drowning and he's not expecting much. 

His next session (one of his pre-collapse-of-SHIELD cases: Jane, thirty three, raped by a man in her unit in Iraq and quietly shuffled home) is a bad one on top of the ache of Lisa and Anthony's visit and he's tired of just about everything right now, tired of the thousand different ways people's lives can be ruined, tired of being patient and compassionate instead of curled up in his bed at home. He stands for a minute in the center of his office, hands on his hips, and gives himself the moment to breathe and feel the anger and sadness and frustration. Breathes it out. Lets it go. That's when he looks over and sees the drawing, abandoned on the little table where Anthony was sitting.

He knows what it is instantly because he's seen something similar a lot in the last few days. There's a man with black skin and big wings soaring into the sky - but instead of Captain America, Sam is carrying a little boy whose skin is the same color and has wings of his own.

 

-

 

When the World War II units had rolled around in school and they'd been told to write a report about someone, Sam had picked Gabe Jones. A lot of the black kids in his class had, and the teacher had picked new people for some of them. Sometimes when this happened there weren't enough other famous black people to go around, but this time Sam had gotten Benjamin O. Davis Jr, and he'd been real pleased about it. 

They'd been at his grandparents' house at some point when he'd been writing the report, and after quizzing his grandpa about the Tuskegee Airmen, Grandpa Edwin had had Sam's dad drag out the box of Captain America comics, and they'd spent the rest of the evening in companionable silence together, reading.

Grandpa Edwin told him that night that the Howling Commando reels had been one of the first times he'd ever seen a black face on the big screen that wasn't somebody's servant or Mammy or a jungle savage. Gabe Jones had been right there next to Captain America while the announcer had called the Howlies the best America had to offer. "You can't imagine how it felt," he'd told Sam.

He hasn't thought about that in ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr - [come say hi!](http://mssr-herringbone.tumblr.com/) I can't promise I know how to use it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gestures Sam over to sit on one of the other chairs, and they settle back down. “How was traffic?” Steve asks, like he wasn’t apparently creeping on Google Maps over there.
> 
> “Fine, fine,” Sam says. “Had some good music to keep me company. A lot better than your mug telling me I drive too slow."
> 
> “I can’t help the truth, Sam,” Steve tells him, his best _Captain America expects better from you, son_ face on.

It's a few weeks before he can make it back up to New York. He works 19 days straight, mostly by accident. He talks to Steve most nights on the phone, and they text throughout the day. Steve Rogers _loves_ to text. 

Steve Rogers (06:45 4/04/14):  
 _Sam good morning! Have you ever had an empanada?_

Steve Rogers (13:41 4/04/14):  
 _Nat says hello and also said to tell you your butt looks good on television. ;D_

Steve Rogers (16:05 4/04/14):  
 _Thank you for the playlist! Results have been mixed with Buck. Elvis = flashback?? Nina Simone = positive response!_

It feels sometimes like he actually _is_ dating Captain America, but it's nice. He hasn't been this close to anyone outside of his family since Riley, and that's more than two years now. They talk as much about what Sam sees at the VA and how he's coping as they do about Bucky Barnes and how his stray cat rehabilitation is going. 

Steve had vetoed therapy from the get go. Sam agrees with this, but probably for different reasons than Steve's. Steve's got some solid cognitive dissonance going on about participating in therapy vs having therapeutic conversations with Sam, who does exactly that for a living. Sam's pretty sure that it has more to do with Steve's personality than any old school social stigmas, but he's not sure how to interpret Steve's motives here. For Sam's part, mostly he thinks that the fewer opportunities Bucky has to try and murder random people, the better it is for everyone involved.

But sometimes he wakes up to a string of text messages that sound like this:

Steve Rogers (03:21 4/08/14):  
 _I can't even figure out why he came here. Or why he stays.  
Maybe he doesn't know himself? We used to know everything about each other.  
I feel like he's waiting for something._

Steve Rogers (04:01 4/08/14):  
 _What do you think would have happened if the mask didn't come off? I'd probably have killed him and never even known._

 

-

 

Sam Wilson (11:52 05/02/14):  
 _ARE YOU READY TO RAGE CAP ROGERS???_

Steve Rogers (11:55 5/02/14):  
 _Ready to rock out with my cock out! 8-D_

Sam Wilson (11:55 05/02/14):  
 _omfg what  
are you serious_

Steve Rogers (11:56 5/02/14):  
 _8-D 8-D 8-D 8-------D_

Sam Wilson (11:56 05/02/14):  
 _Holy crap. I should know better by now, you piece of crap. Getting in the car, see you 3ish._

Steve Rogers (11:58 5/02/14):  
 _Ok!  
Are you driving now? :-D:-D:-D  
Drive safely!  
There's an accident at Lincoln Tunnel, you might want to take Holland Tunnel and take the west side up._

Steve Rogers (12:22 5/02/14):  
 _I forgot you can't talk and drive. O.O!_

The weather is cooling down a bit and Sam goes the whole way with the windows down and the speakers up. He takes the Holland Tunnel as advised and only hits a few blocks of excruciating traffic as he’s coming into midtown. Arriving at Stark Tower, he goes through the formalities he apparently got to skip when arriving with Captain America. He waits twenty minutes to go through security. His picture is taken and he’s given a badge. “It's biometric, so you don’t have to wave it in front of any doors,” the girl explains. “Just - don't go anywhere you're not supposed to.”

The elevator opens to reveal a repaired and seemingly empty living room. There’s music playing; something big band, which Sam’s never had an ear for. “Hello?” Sam calls. He sets his duffle on the couch and sticks the six pack in the fridge, catches a bit of movement out on the terrace. 

Steve’s sprawled out on the long couch; Barnes is on the ground adjacent, with his knees drawn up to his chest, his hair tied up away from his face. He's smoking a cigarette with his right hand, head cocked up and to the side, watching Steve. He doesn't look over when Sam steps out onto the terrace, eyes fixed on Steve as the other guy bounds to his feet to give Sam a big hug. 

“This view is unreal!” Sam says, wandering over to the railing. Below them the city spreads out like a dream, like all the movies Sam’s ever seen. It’s a hell of a nice day and far below his feet Sam can see hundreds of yellow cabs, the abrupt negative space of Central Park, carved out into the canyon of skyscrapers. He sends a Snapchat to Lou of the panorama, adds a dozen smiley faces to the picture. 

Steve gestures Sam over to sit on one of the other chairs, and they settle back down. “How was traffic?” Steve asks, like he wasn’t apparently creeping on Google Maps over there.

“Fine, fine,” Sam says. “Had some good music to keep me company. A lot better than your mug telling me I drive too slow."

“I can’t help the truth, Sam,” Steve tells him, his best _Captain America expects better from you, son_ face on.

There's not a lot of small talk they can make since he talks to Steve more than he talks to his own mother these days, but Barnes has zoned out immediately. Sam can't help but watch him out the corner of his eyes. Barnes isn’t listening to them at all, even though Steve is telling some anecdote about the two of them during the war. He takes a long drag of the cigarette and lets it out slowly, luxuriously. He's got a tank top on and his metal arm glints in the sunlight, drawing Sam's eyes over and over. There’s deep, pitted scarring all around it, and from behind Sam can see the metal plates extend out at least as far as where Barnes’ shoulder blade probably used to be.

What is there to talk about, with someone like this? It’s easier to imagine having a conversation with Beyonce. She and Sam would have more in common, in their day to day lives.

“How’s life up here in the Tower?” Sam asks, looking at Barnes. Steve smiles at him, grateful. He’s sprawled out on his own couch, looking more relaxed than Sam has ever seen him. He’s twitching one knee back and forth a little. The other leg is pressed against Barnes’ left shoulder. Barnes opens his eyes, sees them staring at him. 

“Warm,” he says, and takes another drag off his cigarette. Not a lot of places to go with that, Sam thinks. He doesn’t have any court mandated clients; mostly just people who came in for the group sessions and recognized they needed some extra support. Usually when he sees people they’re at least on their way to taking the first step to thinking about maybe getting help. 

“I heard you guys ate five pizzas between the two of you last night,” Sam says, and Barnes’ lip curls - it’s hardly noticeable, but the way he turns away is a clear dismissal. 

Steve jumps in. “It was from Lombardi’s - it’s this place downtown that's even older than we are. They don't deliver this far uptown but I think Stark paid them extra to do it. Never been there before - we didn’t used to come to the city much at all, except when I was taking classes at Cooper Union. Went to Totonno’s in Coney Island a couple times though, I think - right Buck?”

The silence stretches. Barnes curls and uncurls the metal hand, which makes quiet whirring sounds as he moves. "Buck, I'm gonna take Sam down to say hi to Stark," Steve says, a little abruptly. "You wanna come?" 

Barnes’ head snaps up, eyes wide. He’s flipped from irritated to frightened almost on a dime. He shakes his head. Steve and Sam both stand, but Steve hesitates. 

"You need anything?" Steve asks, shifting from one foot to another. Barnes tips his head back and for a second Sam thinks he's gonna rub up against Steve's thigh, just curl up into him like a cat, but all he says is “no,” low and quiet, staring up. Steve's standing a little bit too close and he’s got his hand out, like he also thought Barnes was about to full on rub up on him, and his fingers stay curled for just a second, a few inches away from touching Barnes' hair. 

"Okay," Steve says. "We'll be back in a bit. Ask JARVIS if you need anything."

It's an odd moment, and it itches a bit at Sam as he slides the terrace door closed behind them, leaving Barnes to his cigarettes and whatever Winter Soldiers do when they're alone.

As soon as the elevator doors close, Steve’s shoulders drop. He scrubs a hand over his face, and when the hand comes down he looks about ten years older than he did back up on the terrace.

"So,” Sam says, slowly. “How's it been?" 

Steve groans. “I got no idea what to do with him, Sam. This is -” he gestures, aimlessly, “this is a good day, you know. A _really_ good day. Eye contact. We almost had a real conversation earlier, about _scrambled eggs_.”

“He try to kill anyone lately?” Steve hasn’t mentioned any incidents in their calls but that’s not proof of anything, especially with that face he’s making just now. 

“Only twice,” Steve mutters. “And I don’t think he was actually trying to kill anyone, just … feeling us out. Seeing what we’d do.”

“What _did_ you do?” Sam asks. “And thanks for letting me know he’s still a little trigger happy before I show up here, yeah? Would’ve worn a vest or something.”

“It wasn’t a concern,” Steve says, “like I said, nothing happened. Hill took care of herself and I - I was fine. No harm done. And since then he’s been _fine_. Just - quiet. He doesn’t say much that’s not a reply to a direct question. I’m talking both his ears off and he just sits there - listening maybe half the time. I can’t tell what he remembers or if he knows who he is or not. He’s - like a locked box.”

Sam’s heard most of this before, but it’s different being able to see the pain on Steve’s face. “I know,” he says, even though the truth of it is that he doesn’t. He’s found himself thinking of Barnes like he's a stray animal rather than a person because it’s easier that way, a hell of a lot easier than trying to imagine himself in Steve's place, to get Riley back but in the worst way imaginable.

The elevator doors open and they step out into a long, brightly lit hallway. He bumps Steve with his shoulder. “Are you taking care of yourself too? Sleeping okay, eating enough?”

“Sure,” Steve says, which means no. “Sam, I know you said he wasn’t gonna be the same person, but Bucky - it's like he's a stranger wearing my best friend's face. At least if SHIELD was still around there'd be - _protocol_. People to give orders. All I have now is you and Stark's money, which is -" He breaks off, sighing. "A lot to be grateful for, but it still doesn't change the fact that I don't know how to help him."

"No one ever does, Steve," Sam tells him. They're stopped in front of a plain door, through which machine sort of noises are coming from. "That's okay. Look, you know I still think that eventually we should be getting him professional help, but for right now ... whatever we do now is gonna be at least - a _hundred million_ times better than what it was like for him before, right? You've got some leeway, man. There's no perfect way to be there for someone, you just - do the best you can."

 

\- 

 

Steve and Tony are not, Sam is quick to realize, actually friends. He could see how the penthouse apartment and offer to house Barnes indefinitely could have made him think otherwise, but apparently defending New York City from an alien invasion hadn't actually made them pals.

Tony looks like he sleeps in his clothes, if he sleeps at all, but he grins cheerfully at them as they enter his domain. It's clearly his domain; there's machinery and robot parts and tools everywhere, but there's also empty coffee cups and the smell of stale cologne and old sweat laid over the ozone. 

"Steve!" Tony calls, and holds up some papers. "Your subpoena awaits. They dropped it off at reception this morning. I think technically they're supposed to see your face to actually serve it to you, but my people let them know that wouldn't be necessary. Thank you and you’re welcome.” He flaps the papers at Steve, who takes them and starts reading, a frown settling on his face.

“Guess they’re not taking no for an answer anymore,” Steve says. “Sam, you mind if I stay at your place, while I take care of this? Tony, you remember Sam, right?”

"Why yes, I sure do," Tony says. "I do remember your only other friend in the world. How's it hanging, birdman? To the left or to the right?"

"The left," Sam answers, and is rewarded with a very white, gleaming smile. 

“Does anyone know that Bucky’s here?” Steve asks. Tony favors him with a baleful look.

“Rogers, you are a thousand percent the opposite of fun,” he complains, and then stage whispers at Sam, “Cap here's a little _sensitive_ to coarse language."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "I'll be sure to watch my mouth," he replies, fascinated. He can almost hear Steve's teeth grind together. 

Tony relents. "The FBI has him on Amtrak security footage leaving Washington DC, but not arriving in Manhattan. There's nothing else, as far as we've been able to find." Steve nods, his shoulders relaxing a hair, and then Tony adds, "Your little love nest is still a secret."

This time Steve's eyes flick over to Sam, with a long suffering expression. "There's nothing in this about Bucky," he says, finally, flipping through the subpoena. "They want me to testify about SHIELD and the growth of HYDRA."

Sam's only seen a few headlines about the Winter Soldier. The only photos of Barnes out in the world are from the streets underneath Roosevelt Bridge: stalking off a crushed car or in blurry action against Captain America. The media called him a super villain to Steve's super soldier, but he's been buried almost entirely in the avalanche of coverage on the crash of the Helicarriers and the SHIELD file dump. It's a big relief, and Sam says as much.

"Yep," Tony says, popping the word sharply. "There's not a lot of bloodhounds out for him yet, but I'm sure they'll catch the scent sooner or later. What's your play gonna be, Captain?"

"I'll tell the committee that I have a few opinions about their predecessors recruiting Nazi scientists into the government," Steve says. "It'll make a good sound bite and it's old enough news that no one sitting up there will take it too personally."

Sam huffs a laugh, but Tony pursues the point. "I mean about Bucky Badass," he says. "If they come after him, what are you gonna do about it?"

Steve looks up at that, straightens his shoulders. "I'll handle it," he says, mildly. 

Steve's phone buzzes. He makes a face when he checks the screen. "I gotta take this," he says, and steps away. There's a beat of slightly awkward silence. 

"So, how long you in town for?" Tony asks. "Gonna take in the sights? See a Broadway show? Hedwig and the Angry Inch _totally_ lives up to the hype, by the way. I could probably get you guys tickets. Orchestra section. If you want."

"You know we've met before?" Sam asks, on impulse. Tony tilts his head to the side, like a dog. 

"I make a habit of not remembering when I meet people," he says. "Then you can't be held responsible for forgetting them. When did we meet, Sam?"

"Afghanistan," Sam says. The flinch is there and gone from Tony's face so fast Sam could almost believe he imagined it. "2009. Meet and greet for the EX0-7 FALCON program with some of your investors. You shook my wingman's hand." For Riley, it had been like meeting a movie star.

"I thought those wings looked familiar," Tony breathes. "But I don't always remember the weapons I make either. You were black ops?"

"Para-rescue," Sam answers, and he sees Tony absorb that, file it away.

"That set in DC," Tony says, "that was the last set, the one that was stolen from Fort Meade?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Barnes tore 'em right off my back, like they were tissue paper. You think you could fix that?"

 

-

 

Steve is quiet on the ride back up. "You don't like him very much, do you?" Sam asks.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Stark is," he says, and then pauses, looking for the right word. "His heart is in the right place. Probably. He's just - well, you saw."

"Yeah, he's a lot to deal with. He seems okay though - I mean, he's done a lot of good as Iron Man. But you don't trust him?" 

Steve slants a grin at him. "Sam, there's about four people in all the world I _do_ trust, and two of them are in this apartment. I like Stark well enough and I appreciate everything he’s done for Buck and me, but I don't need him prying."

"So what _would_ you do, if they came for Barnes?" he asks, and Steve actually laughs at that, the little shit.

"I'd handle it," he repeats, still grinning, as the elevator doors slide open.

Steve makes a beeline to the terrace, as if Barnes might have vanished in the 20-odd minutes they've been gone. It's a valid possibility, Sam assumes. He closes the door behind himself, stands talking to Bucky quietly for a few minutes. Sam drops onto the couch and texts his mom, lets her know he made it to New York safely. 

He wonders if the government knows who he is. There are fewer than 20 trained Falcons alive and kicking, last Sam heard, and ten of them are still on active duty. Of the seven on American soil, it would be an easy process of elimination - Sam's the only one who's black. Would they arrest him? What could he be charged with? He'd gone with Natasha into Fort Meade to make sure they'd be getting the complete pack. Is there a possibility he'll be called to testify also? Would he lose his job if his name was made public?

His pocket buzzes. _Love you too, mom_ he writes back. 

He looks up when the terrace door slides open. Steve sits down on the couch next to Sam, looking like he's been sucking lemons. Sam nudges him. "So what's eating you, man? I know it's not just Stark."

Steve tucks his chin into his chest. He glances over to where Barnes can be seen through the glass. "Fury’s calling me in," Steve says. "He needs me for an operation against HYDRA in Ukraine. He's put me in touch with some deep cover operatives he still has in his pocket - that was my contact who called, earlier. She's arranged weapons and transport in and out for me."

"What about Barnes?" Sam asks. Steve looks over his shoulder again.

"I talked to him about it yesterday," Steve says doubtfully. "I don't know what he made of it. He asked where the op was and how long I'd be away, but that about was it. I don't know. Stark said he'd keep an eye on him for me, which is ... well, it's something."

"You still wanna be fighting Fury's battles, after what we found out?" Sam asks. 

Steve is quiet for a long moment, and when he looks up to meet Sam's eyes his smile is sweet and sad. "They're the right battles," he says. "Even if it's the wrong people and the wrong reasons. Natasha's being brought in too, I guess. I'll say hi for you."

"Yeah, do that," Sam says. "Steve, though - where do you draw the line? For what the right battle is?"

The terrace door slides open and Barnes shuffles through, looking at the two of them warily. He slinks through the living room without reaction to Steve's soft, "hey, Buck." Out of sight, they hear a door close. 

"With him," Steve says, after a moment. "If there's any line for me to draw, it's with Bucky. Sam, I think Fury knows that he's here."

"You think he'll use Barnes as leverage, to keep you in pocket," Sam says. Steve nods.

"I'll take Fury down myself if he tries anything," he says. "But he could leak Bucky's location to another agency, easy enough. This isn’t - forever. I just need some time until Bucky’s a little more stable. If Fury sees us here, being well behaved … "

“You don’t have to look over your shoulder so much,” Sam finishes.

“Yeah,” Steve says, meeting Sam’s eyes. “I’m not letting anyone hurt him again, Sam. Not ever.”

Sam nods, glancing down to his own hands, flat on his thighs. “I got your back, man,” he says. “Just say the word, I’m there.”

A door opens and closes. The shower turns on. The rest of the apartment is silent, hermetically sealed, just the hum of central air and the electronics in the walls.

"So what now?" Sam asks. Steve considers.

"There's a Wii set up on the TV," he offers. "Wanna play some tennis?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr - [come say hi!](http://mssr-herringbone.tumblr.com/) I can't promise I know how to use it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sam, you were already a hero," Steve says - and it hurts to hear that, hurts especially coming from him, and Sam drops his eyes and thinks of watching New York City in flames - and that lick of shame still shakes him all the way through, every time.
> 
> But - he knows, objectively. What his life, the things he's done, look like to other people. What Riley had looked like, to him. It's still a hard thing to claim, but he unlocks his throat and says, roughly, "Yeah. But I've never been a symbol."

Communication with Steve cuts off abruptly the day after Sam returns to DC. He'd warned Sam he'd be radio silent when out of country, but Sam finds himself feeling a little aimless without the constant stream of text messages to cheer him up. Work is finally stabilizing, a little bit - the crisis passing in the immediate sense, although he's taken on a few new clients and added a group session to his Tuesday evenings to handle the influx. 

He runs, in the morning. He sees his sister a few times, calls his mom a lot. A few days stretches into a week with no word from Steve, and Sam tries not to worry. 

He doesn't know much about what Steve does, when he's out being Captain America. He doesn't do interviews, he doesn't make political statements. Sam's seen Steve in a few of his sister's gossip rag magazines, mostly in the Celebrities: They're Just Like Us! section, images of Steve getting coffee or out running. He's gotten the impression that most of what Steve used to get up to with SHIELD is classified and the rest was super boring. An unsanctioned mission to Ukraine, with Natasha and Fury's deep cover operatives? The less Sam knows, the better.

But he worries, just a little. He feels a strong pang of sympathy for his mother, and calls to apologize to her for many of his life choices.

In a fit of morbid curiosity and just a little self-aware neediness, he goes to the Smithsonian. There's swelling, trumpet heavy music pumping through hidden speakers. There's a lot of very somber looking white people milling around. The walls are shrouded in black and it's nice and cool inside the exhibit, and it is _profoundly weird_ to see his friend's face all over the walls. They have a wall of Steve and Bucky's belongings from when they lived together in Brooklyn, given to Barnes' parents when Steve had left for Basic, now tastefully displayed as historic artifacts: a monstrous bicycle, a pair of leather shoes with curling toes, a shaving kit.

(He wonders where Steve is. What kind of place they put him up in. Who arranges these things when SHIELD is defunct? What kind of people are they? Is Sam the only black dude in this place? Wait, is Sam the only person in here who's not white? Where the hell is everyone?)

There's a photo of Sarah Rogers, five rows back in a sea of nurses standing in front of an enormous brick hospital, only a faded arrow to distinguish her from a hundred other washed out faces. There are three battered sketchbooks, propped open on acrylic blocks to show pencil sketches of hands and feet, Sarah Rogers smiling, Bucky Barnes sleeping, cats in an alleyway strewn with lines of laundry, anonymous nude figures. 

(Spends half a moment contemplating Steve's sex life pre-serum, regrets it immediately and makes a mental apology to his friend. Wonders a little about it now, if whoever Steve asked out had accepted. 

Remembers the day he met Steve, grass and dirt sticking to his legs, still trying to catch his breath, wishing he wasn't sweating through his fucking sweatshirt, and realizing, very abruptly, _this guy is flirting with me_. A sort of neutral marvel in it, nothing he’d have felt threatened by even if he was that sort of guy, just charmed by the novelty: _Captain America is flirting with me!_ )

Gabe Jones has a nice section, on the wall shared with the other Howling Commandos' biographies. He was the first person in his family to go to college. He'd been the youngest of the Howlies, barely 22 when he'd been captured by HYDRA. He's survived by a big family that includes two members of Congress, and Sam smiles up at the photo of Jones, taken a year or two before he passed - elderly, wearing his court robes, beaming ear to ear.

(If Sam does this - should he move to New York? Would he be able to keep his job, if he has to leave for weeks at a time? What about his clients? What about health insurance? Who pays for Steve's insurance now, anyway? If SHIELD is defunct does that mean they're defaulting on insurance premiums for thousands of people? Is Steve _allowed_ to be uninsured, now that the ACA has kicked in, or are there super soldier exceptions? Oh god, Sam's spent years coddling that damn ficus in his apartment, maybe Lou would look after it.)

Bucky Barnes has an area to himself. There's a grainy photo of Barnes as an infant, deeply swaddled and held by a woman with the same prominent eyes and small chin. There's a pencil drawing (the legend helpfully points out that Steve Rogers drew it) of three small children, Barnes' siblings. There's the medal, of course, gleaming in its own shadow box and spotlight. Sam stands and stares at it for a while, waiting for the ache in his heart to fade.

(Riley had been _crazy_ and he used to scare the shit out of Sam on the regular, the way he flew, the risks he took, the kind of reckless that came from fighting for every inch he'd ever gained in life, and Sam had loved him like a brother, would have done anything for him, would have razed cities for him and cut off his own arm for him, and of course he hadn't really realized that until he saw the RPG hit and Riley's body shred apart so fast he hadn't even had time to scream.)

The crowd has thinned about a bit by the time he makes it to the little room where they're looping the Howling Commando reels, the ones they used to show before the cartoons, so he's the only one in there for a long time. 

He's never actually seen the reels before, not in their entirety - just clips on the documentaries. He tracks Gabe Jones in the background in some of them, looking thrilled to be there. The narrative is weird and peppy. The first two films, each about ten minutes long, are mainly of Steve looking serious and brave and, Sam thinks, a little queasy. He pulls out his phone to send a Snapchat to Steve of the dumb face he's making, but has to stuff it back into his pocket when a lady and her two kids look in, hesitate, and then sit down in the furthest row from him. The smaller kid has Steve's shield on the back of his t-shirt.

The reel changes from Captain America: America's Hero! to The Howling Commandos: America's Crack Fighters! The narrative rolls out smooth over generic footage of enlisted men in barracks and canteens, a standard salute to Our Boys, Doing Their Part! before transitioning to a wide shot of the Howlies, suited up, guns and rifles at the ready, attractively grimy like they're the stars of a John Wayne movie. Steve's got his hood up and a serious look on his face, standing at ease in the center of the shot, but the rest of the Howlies are grinning ear to ear, every one of them. 

"The Howling Commandos!" booms the voice over. "Brothers in arms, whose bonds were forged while in the clutches of HYDRA - Hitler's mad scientists!"

Dum Dum Dugan jostles Bucky Barnes with his shoulder, who shoots an elbow out into Gabe Jones' side, and they all look half a second from cracking up and ruining the shot entirely. Even Steve's mouth is curling up, and this - this was what the public loved. The force of personality and camaraderie on screen hiding the fact that all of these men were ruthless killers, even Steve Rogers.

"When Captain America asked for the best America had to offer, these were the men who stepped forward!"

(Sam sucks in a breath, loud enough that one of the kids glances back at him, curious, and for a second it's like he's a kid himself again, wrapped up in his grandpa's arms, smelling the creaky leather of Grandpa Edwin's jacket, the dry smell of old comics wafting up as he turns the pages, listening to his grandpa read the words for him.)

The shot changes, finally, to some fairly candid scenes. The Howlies in the trenches, eating MREs and making faces. Falsworth and Morita, sharing a cigarette. Jones with his helmet tucked under his arm, looking into the camera and grinning to beat the band. Steve, pointing on a map spread out over the hood of a car, a picture of Peggy Carter visible in the lid of his compass. Barnes sitting on a low stone wall with Steve, arms around each other's shoulders, laughing like kids.

Steve - Steve looks happy and relaxed, a stark change not only from the guy that slept on Sam's couch for a week but even from the other reels, jogging down a beach or through a bombed out street in obviously staged shots. Up on screen Barnes looks very young, and he watches Steve with a sort of open, resigned affection on his face. It makes Sam smile, still a little heartsick thinking of Riley and the way they’d butted heads. In grainy black & white, Sam can finally see the resemblance to the hunched, ominous figure camping out at Stark Tower - in the way that Barnes and Steve track each other through every shot, always at each other's sides, angled towards each other, moving in sync. 

"When our country asked, these men answered our desperate need with boots on the ground and arms at the ready! These men - who hail from California to Brooklyn - have found a common purpose in Captain America's Howling Commandos! These men have offered their all to keep America free from Nazi tyranny!"

Sam's grandfather had been a Triple Nickel, had spent most of the war in Chico, California fighting incendiary bombs sent over on balloons from Japan, which has always sounded a little insane to Sam, like the thin plot of a comic book. The European theatre hadn't wanted the 555th, hadn't seen a use for an all-black parachuting unit no matter how desperate the need was. Grandpa Edwin had had a lot of stories about the war and fighting fires, but he'd never talked about that part of it.

When the war ended, Grandpa Edwin had been almost the age Sam is now, married and with two little kids already. He'd volunteered early on and kept his medals in a place of pride on the mantelpiece, wore his WWII Veteran hat whenever he went out. He'd died of a heart attack when Sam was sixteen, outlasting Grandma Louise by six weeks. They'd been married 54 years and when Sam had started his training for pararescue, his dad had cried and said, _Grandpa would be so proud of you_.

(It had felt so good to be back in it, like something inside him had fallen asleep and was awake again now, hungry for the adrenaline and the free fall and the thud of his heart beating right out his chest, but this, this would be like enlisting all over again, signing himself over body and soul to ... to what? He does good work at the VA, _important_ work. Can he really walk away from that?

He knows the answer to that, though. He's known it all along.)

 

-

 

It's getting dark when he leaves the Smithsonian. He feels strange, like he's woken up in a room he doesn't know the shape of yet. He feels satisfied, like he's seen a Stephen Spielberg movie, cathartic and predictable. He wonders if Steve has seen the exhibit, what he would think of seeing his whole life tied up in a neat little package - if he’s proud that his legacy isn’t just comic books and cartoons. 

The Mall is still full of people. It’s a nice night to be out in it: kites flickering up in the sky, the smell of charred meat from the trucks lined up Jefferson Drive. He pulls his phone out, still standing on the steps of the museum, flips it over and over in his hands.

Unlocks it, scrolls down a little to find the text he’s left unanswered for the last few days: _You sure?_

Types in: _Yep._

The answer is almost immediate: _Welcome aboard._

 

-

 

Steve Rogers (09:55 6/02/14):  
 _Hey, Sam! I'm scheduled to testify morning of the 9th. Is it still OK if I come down the night before, and stay with you?_

Sam Wilson (11:44 6/02/14):  
 _Yeah course, come on down. I'll BBQ. I've got some stuff to tell you about._

Steve Rogers (11:46 6/02/14):  
 _OK!_

 

\- 

 

He can hear Steve's big bike rumbling all the way down the block. Steve brings it down the narrow driveway to the corridor shared between this block's houses and the next, where Sam's own (brand new, finally!) car is parked. Sam's in the back yard already, enjoying the evening breeze. It's been hot all day and Sam is contemplating the inevitable heat death of the universe that is summer in DC, but he thinks he can see a few fireflies, here and there in the bushes.

Steve lets himself in by the back gate, beams when he sees Sam sitting in the shade. Sam's got skirt steak and chicken wings on the grill, corn on the cob wrapped up in foil in a ring around the meat. It smells good, like everything summer, and Steve makes appreciative noises as Sam pops him open a beer. They sit back in Sam's shitty IKEA deck chairs and clink bottles. Steve pulls his phone out and taps out a text, gets a reply back within seconds. "It's nice back here," Steve says, tucking the phone back into his pocket. "Quiet. Like being out in the country."

Sam raises an eyebrow. He can hear traffic from the nearest circle, his neighbors two doors over on their third straight hour of fucking with that goddamn scooter, and an ambulance howling as if on cue. "You ever actually been in the country?"

Steve shrugs. "Not so's you'd notice."

Sam wipes the sweat off his forehead, leans over and pokes the steak with the tongs. "You ready for tomorrow?"

Steve makes a face. He takes a pull from the beer, twists it around in his hands. "I don't know what they're expecting me to say," he says, frowning. "Hill's been trying to call me, get me to stick to the party line."

"I thought the plan was grumpy old man complaining about Nazis," Sam says, but Steve shakes his head, looks up at Sam.

"I don't know," he says. "It's - complicated. I brought down a big ship and a lot of good people with it. You've been seeing the fallout at the VA and in the city here, but I ... I blinded myself to it. I've been so focused on Bucky and getting him better that I wasn't even _seeing_ anything else. There are thousands of people now without a job, without any way to support their families - suspected of being terrorists, all their personal information up on Wikileaks - I need to be accountable to them."

"Yeah?" Sam asks. "Is Fury gonna stand up with you and be accountable too?"

Steve's mouth twists. "That'd be the day. They need a fall guy for this and I've got a big silver bullseye already pinned on."

Anger twists in Sam's gut, and he looks away from Steve, towards the familiar enclosure of garages and low fences that have been his home for the last two years. "They wouldn't," he says. "You saved millions of people that day, and everyone knows it."

"Funny, I don't remember being up there by myself," Steve says mildly, and he grins when Sam looks over. Sam bursts out laughing.

"Don't you bat your eyelashes at me, Rogers," he says. "I ain't one of your chorus girls."

"I thought you liked it when I was sweet on you," Steve says, reaching out like he's gonna stroke Sam's cheek. Sam slaps his hand with the tongs. "Sugar pie," Steve croons, dissolving into laughter himself. "Darling. Light of my life."

"You knock that right off," Sam says, trying to breathe, "I won't have Barnes getting all jealous."

The smug look on Steve's face vanishes like someone's slapped it off. "What is it?" Sam asks, instantly alarmed. "Did something happen? Is everyone okay? Did Barnes run? Did he hurt someone?" The possibilities are endless and awful, but Steve hadn't mentioned anything, he would've _said something_ if -

"Bucky's fine," Steve says, low, but there's something off in his tone - and he's _blushing_ all the way down to his collar, and Sam's brain deserts him entirely, because _Jesus fucking Christ_.

He knows he's gaping at Steve, can feel it. He shuts his mouth abruptly and turns away, trying to regain some kind of composure. He can feel Steve looking at him, waiting - _fuck_ , Sam thinks - waiting for judgement. 

It's funny - a lot of the documentaries and books and movies have emphasized the special bond between Captain America and Bucky Barnes, drawn from first hand accounts and in depth analysis of the film shot for the propaganda reels. Their friendship is the stuff of legends, just like Captain America's doomed love of Peggy Carter. But there are books published also about Barnes and Rogers, the kind of books that don't get put on the shelf with the rest of the Captain America canon. He remembers kids in his class cracking jokes that made the teacher cringe and change the subject. Because it was kind of a joke, wasn't it? The closer-than-brothers line. Like Bert and Ernie. Sherlock and Watson. 

He feels a little bit like he's just found dirty letters or seditious political pamphlets hidden away in his grandparents' closet. And right on the heels of that he feels like a total asshole.

"Sorry," Sam manages. "I'm just - surprised. Was _really_ not expecting that."

"Sam," Steve says, "I know that attitudes towards, towards things like this are - different now but if this is something that -"

"No no," Sam says, holding up an awkward hand. Steve's eyes are steady and clear, but he's got one hand wrapped around the arm of the deck chair so tight Sam is genuinely afraid it's gonna break. "It's not that. Not at all about that, Steve, I'm just - I was caught off guard, that's all." Steve smiles, reflexively, still looking a little queasy, and Sam reaches for him, gets a hand over Steve's wrist before he can pull back. "It's not that," Sam says. 

Steve sighs and turns his hand over so he can wrap his fingers around Sam's wrist in turn, and all of the sudden the whole thing is hilarious, holding hands with Steve Rogers in his back yard, feeling awkward and shy. Steve lets go first, and Sam takes a moment to get the skirt steak off the grill and turn the chicken wings over. 

"Is it really - safe? Is he safe?" Steve's eyes harden, and Sam can feel the line they're both toeing. "Look, I'm not saying he's gonna try to kill you again, because I think we both know he probably will, but that's kind of the problem, isn't it? You've told me sometimes he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't sleep for days, you can't even take him outside yet - is he really capable of - of consenting?"

Steve blinks first, and leans back in his seat, contemplative. "He, uh - " His face gets even redder, which is honestly impressive. "He -"

"Nope - no gory details," Sam says, holding up a hand. 

"It - I think it helps him," Steve mumbles into his beer bottle. "He seems calmer. More lucid. More - himself. I'd never hurt him, Sam."

There's a lot Sam wants to say to that, but he settles for, "Just be careful." 

They're quiet for a moment. The fire spits a little, grease from the chicken wings starting to run clear. "So, uh," Sam says, trying for casual. "How long has this been going on?"

Steve looks up at the sky, a wry expression on his face. "Since about ...1931? 1932?" And yeah, Sam can only guess at the look his face is making as he does the math. "Not - all the time," Steve amends, carefully. "Just sometimes. It was never ..."

"I meant - recently," Sam says, when it's clear Steve's not going to continue. 

"Not long," Steve says. He sounds a little lost when he says it, staring at the fire. "Just since I came back from Ukraine."

"Were you planning on telling me about this?" Sam asks. "About you and Barnes?"

Steve shakes his head, and Sam frowns. "Steve," he says, gently, "have you ever told anyone about you and Barnes?"

Steve smiles, and Sam's heart gives him a little squeeze. "Back then it was different," he says softly, meeting Sam's eyes. "Not just that we could have been arrested or beaten up or worse, if people knew. But also we weren't -." He laughs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He's still blushing. 

"Sam, I'm aware most people think I'm a huge stick in the mud, and that's fine. But just because I don't always feel comfortable discussing certain things doesn't mean they only got invented in 1946. Buck and me, when we left his folks' place and got an apartment of our own, we were - I don't know if people really say _gayborhood_ or if that was just Stark fooling around, but that was mostly the kind of neighborhood it was, where we lived. It was cheap and there was a lot of under the table work around for me, so it was a good couple'a years for us, but we weren't ... _together_. We didn't think of ourselves that way, as gay or bisexual or even _straight_. The kind of language you have now - that was barely even a concept for us. It was just ... something that happened between him and me sometimes."

Sam takes a deep breath, and steps over the precipice. "What about Peggy Carter?"

Steve draws in a long, slow breath. "You go right for the gut shot, don't you, Wilson," he says.

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "You're right, it's none of my business."

"It's okay," Steve says. "I can see why you'd ask. It's just ..."

Sam starts pulling chicken off the grill, piling it up onto the big tray he's got the steak resting on. Steve sets his beer down on the grass and goes inside, returns with plates and a roll of paper towels. "I'm an asshole," Sam says, over his shoulder. "You're obviously uncomfortable and I'm sorry I pried."

"Bucky told me he was in love with me, when we were kids," Steve tells him, and that's it, Sam is just done with these revelations. Steve sets a plate on his knees and sets to work unwrapping some corn. Sam can see the tension in Steve's shoulders so he cuts himself a nice helping of the steak and waits.

"Peggy is - amazing," Steve says. The neighbors have finally quit it with the scooter and it's almost countryside quiet around them. "She's beautiful and smart and _fearless_ and I was over the moon for her. I never thought I had a chance with a woman like that, and she had known me before all _this_ , when I was this scrawny, sick little punk - and she was still sweet to me even then. 

Bucky ... Bucky's been my whole world, long as I can remember. He's _everything_. But I didn't love him, not like that - I never even thought about it. I had no idea it was even an option, to love him like that - to be _in love_ with him. I don't know how to explain it, that we could be - _intimate_ , but not - dammit, Sam, don't you dare laugh at me right now." 

"Sorry," Sam says, meaning it. Steve's laughing too, just a little, the whole conversation awkward and halting. "I really am. That sounds really shitty."

Steve shrugs, his smile fading. "You could love someone, but it wasn't _real. Real_ love, relationships, a marriage - that was between a man and a woman. I'm sure that sounds pretty awful to you now but that was how people thought. It wasn't even a question."

"It's still how a lot of people think," Sam says. "It's not right."

"Yeah," Steve says. "I know. But it's different when it's you, isn't it."

 

-

 

Later, the sun officially down, the air cool and the back yard full of fireflies, winking slowly in and out around the hedge. Sam's a few beers in, and they're talking about SHIELD. 

The week spent in the Ukraine had been illuminating, apparently. Steve's explanation is brief - he'd been quartered on a big plane under the charge of someone he'd thought was dead, directing a small group composed mainly of traumatized, scared SHIELD lifers, through a field mission involving alien technology. Not what Sam had been picturing, to be honest.

"The situation's a lot worse than we thought it was. They managed to keep most of it out of the media but there was - _so much_ that's now in HYDRA's hands. A secret prison - another goddamn extrajudicial _secret prison_ , and HYDRA busted them all out. Hundreds of recovered weapons and tech SHIELD hadn't even known what to do with, just - gone." 

"Christ," Sam says. He's read a couple of summaries online of the leaked files, but the internet as a collective is still going through everything. There's nearly sixty years of classified information buried beneath sixty years of bureaucracy; it's been slow going.

"I've told them I needed to keep local, so they're passing the eastern seaboard to me, for a while," Steve says. "Guess I'm back on SHIELD's dime again."

"Yeah," Sam says, but it's not as easy this time to say: _I'm there. I've got your back_. This time he knows exactly what he's getting into.

Steve nudges his knee into Sam's, says, "I'm sick of hearing myself talk, Sam. I'm boring myself to death. What's got you so quiet?"

Sam's loose limbed and hating his IKEA deck chairs a lot right now. Why hadn't he sprung for the decent cushions? "It's hard to explain," he says after a moment, shifting to find a more comfortable position. "You kinda derailed my thought process back there."

"Does it have anything to do with Stark building you a new set of wings?" Steve asks. He's got his feet propped up on the LACK table Sam's been meaning to get rid of for months now, drinking some terrible blueberry beer that Sam had forgotten about in the back of his fridge. 

Sam groans. "I wasn't trying to keep it a secret," he tells Steve, who arches an eyebrow at him. 

"Sam, why would _I_ criticize you for keeping something close to the vest?"

Sam holds his beer out, and Steve clinks them together obligingly. He waits, patiently, for Sam to work through how to begin, and Sam - well. Sam takes a deep breath and a leap of faith. "I think I need to give you my big damn hero speech."

Steve grins. Sam is watching the fireflies, mostly, but Steve's attention is fully focused on him. It's a little like having the sun turned on you, and Sam experiences a moment of genuine pity for Bucky Barnes. Dude probably never even stood a chance. "You've heard a few of mine. I think you're due."

"Thanks," Sam says, dryly. "I appreciate that, Steve. You're a cool dude."

Steve spreads his hands. "I'm listening."

Sam drains the last of his beer, sets it down by his feet. "You ever actually read one of the comics they made about you, back in the day?

Steve makes a face. It's clearly not what he was expecting. "Only one. Tried to avoid it."

"Yeah, well, you know they took a lot of liberties, right? Like how they made Bucky into your teenage sidekick?"

Steve lights up. "Yeah. That baby face - he looked about ten years younger than everyone else. The whole thing drove him wild."

Sam nods. "I don't know if you remember this, but Gabe Jones and Jim Morita weren't in them. They were in the propaganda reels and the war front footage, but they weren't included as characters in your comics until 1963."

Steve's eyes widen, and he looks down at the ground as if he's ashamed, as if he personally had something to do with it. "I didn't realize," he says quietly. 

"From 1963 on, my grandpa bought every one of those comics. He showed up at that newsstand every week for at least ten years," Sam tells him. "I couldn't tell you how many times I read them, growing up. I've never told you this, but my grandpa was airborne infantry during World War II. He looked up to you a lot - but he looked up to Gabe Jones even more."

Steve grins, faintly. "Smart guy."

"Yeah, he was," Sam agrees. "Look, I need to ask. What did you think you were doing, putting together a unit like that? Did you think about how it would affect people, back home?"

Steve is quiet for a moment, and then he shakes his head. "The HYDRA factory - they held the prisoners in big cages that fit about ten or twelve men apiece. Our team - the Commandos - they were just the unlucky assholes who got stuck in a cage with Bucky. After we got back behind Allied lines, I asked Buck to help me put together a team. They were his picks."

Sam laughs. "That's it? That's all there was to it?"

"That was it," Steve confirms. "There was a lot of fuss about Gabe, and they thought Jim and Dernier might've been a collaborators, but ... Captain America got what he asked for."

"Must've been nice," Sam says. 

"It was," Steve says. 

"Must've been a change of pace," Sam says. 

Steve laughs. "It was."

"You were beat up and sick all your life. You falsified your enlistment papers to get in," Sam said. "I'm not sure I believe you weren't trying to put together a team full of underdogs."

Steve shrugs, a grin still crooked around his mouth. Sometimes Sam could really slap the smug off Steve's face, honestly. "It worked out okay. Buck always had a good sense about people."

"Well, god bless Bucky Barnes," Sam says, amused, and is rewarded with the first genuine smile he's ever seen in color on Steve Rogers' face, sweet and hesitant and happy. Impulsively, Sam says, "You could, you know. Love him now. If that's what you both want."

Steve looks away. His expression is - thoughtful, but all he says is, "You gonna get to the point of this big speech or what?"

"I'm getting there," Sam replies. "Look, I wasn't thinking about the future a few months back, when you showed up at my house. I knew you needed my help and that was about it. Right after DC it felt like the whole world was talking about me, and that was pretty weird. But it's also, it felt - important. I was a hero and the whole world knew about it."

"Sam, you were already a hero," Steve says - and it hurts to hear that, hurts especially coming from him, and Sam drops his eyes and thinks of watching New York City in flames - and that lick of shame still shakes him all the way through, every time.

But - he knows, objectively. What his life, the things he's done, look like to other people. What Riley had looked like, to him. It's still a hard thing to claim, but he unlocks his throat and says, roughly, "Yeah. But I've never been a symbol." 

Steve is silent, watching him. "A lot of people think heroes only look like you," Sam says. "Or like Tony Stark or Thor. That was true during your day and it's true now - maybe even especially now. Racism hasn't gone away, it's just changed into something that can be ignored or denied, if you're not the one being hurt by it. I'm a lucky guy, Steve - I grew up in a middle class suburb, I went to a good school, my parents are still married - I do yoga sometimes and I like cartoons and I actually kinda dig camping. I'm a lot of things that people maybe don't think of, when they see a big black dude walking down the street. When they turn on the TV or watch the news sometimes the only people who look like me are thugs and drug dealers, and a lot of people think that's all we are. That it's all we can be."

Sam takes a deep breath. He doesn't look over to check Steve's reaction, if there's defensiveness or denial on his face. 

"But the thing is - I'm not just talking about white people, who think like that. It's my people too, thinking it about ourselves, and that can be poison to a person. So I want FOX News calling me an angry black man and a thug, and I want CNN calling me articulate and clean - because that means they're watching me, that I'm out there and people know about it. I want the public attention and I want the press conferences and all those things that I know you hate, because it mattered to my grandpa that his son could read a comic book with a hero in it that looked like him, and it matters to me that when _anyone_ thinks about these real life superheroes we got running around now, they can imagine themselves as one too."

Sam looks up at the sky, blows out a long breath. He risks a glance over at Steve to find him looking down at his hands, thoughtful. He looks up when he feels Sam’s eyes on him, and grins. “Outta all the guys who go running on the Mall,” Steve says, and reaches out a hand, “I had to pick the one who could make Captain America look second rate.” 

Sam grasps Steve’s hand, fighting back his own smile. “Yeah, well,” he says, “guess you got lucky.”

“Guess I did,” Steve agrees. “So how many times you practice that speech in front of the mirror?”

“Only twice,” Sam says, and loses the battle against the laughter bubbling up in his chest. He feels like he’s just stepped off the edge of a cliff. He feels like he’s _flying_. The whole world feels like it’s waiting to take the next breath.

"You know,” Steve says, “I think you might need a new uniform.”

"I got a few ideas," Sam says. "Y'know, the Triple Nickels had a red badge - and I look damn good in red."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr - [come say hi!](http://mssr-herringbone.tumblr.com/) I can't promise I know how to use it.
> 
> Am starting to plot a Steve perspective sequel to this. Basically I could read novels about Captain America's cultural legacy and its impact on history.

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE ALL THE INDEPENDENT, EMOTIONALLY AWARE SAM WILSON FEELS. ALL THE FLIRTY, SASSY STEVE ROGERS FEELS.
> 
> I also have a tumblr - [come say hi!](http://mssr-herringbone.tumblr.com/) I can't promise I know how to use it.


End file.
